Good Night, Jack
by Ramos
Summary: What happened between the end of the war and before they went fishing? Just a little one-shot about the end of an era, and maybe the beginning of something new... Set right at the end of Threads.


Title: Good Night, Jack

Author: Ramos

Rating: Teen

Notes: Takes place after Jacob Carter dies & before they go fishing. Yes, yet another 'What happened before they went fishing' fic.

~~~SG1~~~

"Here ya go, Major," announced the bartender cheerfully, winking as he placed another club soda on the bar.

Lt. Col. Samantha Carter forced her lips into a semblance of a smile. Honestly, the average civilian could be forgiven for mistaking the silver oak leaf on her shoulder tab for a Major's gold oak leaf, but any bartender worth his margarita salt working in Washington, D.C. ought to have known better.

Squeezing the lime slice into the clear liquid, she allowed herself one long look towards the lobby of the hotel, scanning the space for the tall form of her superior officer. She resisted the urge to check her watch and turned her attention back to the yellow legal pad she'd pulled from her briefcase. Not that she actually saw any of the doodles or marks on the page – her mind was centered entirely on the meeting that was taking place AFTER her departure from the stately conference room in the White House.

It had been a long time since she'd been dismissed so firmly from a meeting that was to continue without her input; not since she was a green lieutenant, actually. But when that meeting had been with the President of the United States, and the other members at that long, expensive table had been the Chief of Staff, the Secretary of State, and the Head of Home World Security, not to mention her own commanding officer, General Jack O'Neill - well, it didn't quite sting as much as it could have to be told, in not so many words, to 'run along.'

She and General O'Neill had been summoned from Colorado Springs just hours after her father's death – coincidentally, only hours after the Jaffa had reported that Anubis' Kull Warriors had lost their collective drive and begun milling about aimlessly, making them incredibly easy to kill. The President and the Joint Chiefs had been shocked and relieved that the long war with the Go'uld appeared to be over, and wanted their briefing in person.

After an exhausting few hours spent bringing the President up to speed on the outcome of the battle at Dakara, speculating on the future of the Free Jaffa Nation, hypothesizing and analyzing the apparent death or at least neutralizing of Anubis, the disposition of the remaining Go'uld System Lords, and more than a dozen other issues, Sam had been more than ready to call it a day. They'd both been gathering up their paperwork, star charts, and stray pens when General Jumper thanked Carter for her outstanding work, and in the same breath had politely but firmly asked O'Neill to stay.

The change in agenda had caught her by surprise. Judging by the faint lifting of General O'Neill's left eyebrow, it had been a surprise to him as well.

They'd planned, or at least vaguely agreed, that the rest of their evening would be spent eating pizza and drinking beer at a place she remembered from her days of living in D.C. before finding transport back to Colorado Springs. Now, three hours later, she was still waiting at the hotel bar, torn between going upstairs to change into civvies or staying here, wrinkling her best uniform skirt and worrying while fending off the tacky bartender who kept bringing her water and calling her by the wrong rank.

Years of discipline, both as a soldier and a scientist, let Sam keep her cool and wait. General O'Neill would tell her what she'd missed, if he could, and if he wasn't allowed to tell her, then she wouldn't ask, and any speculation she might indulge in would be short-lived and firmly put to one side in her orderly mind. She lived with far too many secrets in her life, and the addition of one more was not worth the time and effort of worrying about it.

She had other things to worry about – her father's death, her recent breakup with her fiancée, and if she could fit it in, maybe pinning Jack O'Neill down and maybe, just maybe, seeing if the time was right for them to explore whether or not there was actually something between them that could exist outside of their relationship of commander and subordinate.

In fact, so careful was she in not speculating or worrying, it took the sound of his voice to get her attention.

"That's not classified material, is it?"

"Sir!" she managed, surprised. She stood up, not quite at attention, but stiff and respectful of his rank in this public venue. However relaxed they might treat each other while out of uniform and at one another's homes, this public location and their service dress automatically made her more careful of her actions. "No, no… these are designs for a new carburetor for my bike. Just doodles, really. Sir."

"Relax, Carter," he told her gruffly. "Just messing with ya."

Even as she followed his command and relaxed her stance, something in his tone made her wary. Normally by now he'd have his coat unbuttoned and one hand in his pocket, regardless of the unofficial strictures on that behavior. Instead, he stood there, almost as stiffly as she, and his dark brown eyes settled on her briefly before flicking away. Also, he hadn't signaled for a beer, even though the bartender was looking right at him with a clean glass in hand, just waiting for the word.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he began, but the formal address seemed to stick in his throat. His mouth open briefly, though no more words came out. "Here," he finally managed, abruptly thrusting a brown envelope at her.

The General NEVER called her by rank, not since she'd been a Major. Claimed it was too much of a mouthful. And for the man to be unable to speak… now truly alarmed, Sam took it. Her short, serviceable nails scratched at the barely-sealed flap, then slid inside to grasp the papers and pulled them out. Her eyes scanned the first few lines, got to 'Permanent Change of Station,' then stopped. Re-read them. Her brain, genius though it was, had trouble comprehending the words.

"WHAT?" she blurted out. "Sir?!" It wasn't quite insubordinate, but insubordination was in the eye of the beholder and O'Neill was fairly myopic on that subject.

"New orders," he summed up, his voice dark and glum. "Effective immediately."

"I-I don't… I don't understand," she stuttered. "Did I do something…"

"Let's see…" he drawled in a low voice. "You've saved our planet a couple dozen times, helped end a war, overthrow a galactic dictatorship, pretty much saved the human race from one end of the galaxy to the other, blown up a sun… You haven't done a thing, Carter. This isn't punishment. This is supposed to be a reward."

"I don't WANT this," Sam shot back, unwilling to discuss his points. When she glanced away, she noticed more than one bar patron watching them, and she hastily shoved the papers back in the envelope. Catching her reaction, and realizing they were attracting attention, O'Neill heaved a sigh.

"Let's go upstairs," he muttered. "I can take off this monkey suit and get a beer. Maybe order a pizza." He glanced at her. "Come over to my room when you're ready? We can talk then."

Wordlessly, Sam nodded and gathered her doodles.

Forty minutes later she stood in front of O'Neill's room, just across the hall from her own, wearing an old Air Force sweatshirt and jeans. The regulation pumps had been left in her room, and her combat boots might have been odd with her jeans but she hadn't brought anything else with her and she was too much a soldier to walk around a strange place in just a pair of socks.

Most of those forty minutes had been spent staring at her new PCS, but the orders still hadn't changed. Finally she'd thrust them back into their innocuous folder and dropped the whole mess into the suit bag that held her Class A's before marching over to knock on her commander's door.

The smell of pizza lingered in the hall, and he had a piece in his hand when he opened the door. Without a word he waved her in, pointing towards the little table by the window that held a six-pack and a large pizza box. He'd either run out to get it, or had it delivered, but her stomach growled and she decided she didn't care.

He'd changed his clothes just as she had; a flannel shirt hung open over a tee with a faded Homer Simpson on the front, and his jeans were going white and thin at the knees and, as she saw when he turned around to shut the door, the outline of his wallet. Not that she was checking out his ass.

Murmuring something that might have been a thank you, she took the far chair and pulled a couple of slices to the lid side of the box, using it as her plate. The General joined her, washing down his crust with several long swallows of beer and taking another piece. He held his silence, waiting, obviously not sure where she wanted to start and half afraid to start things himself.

"Why?" she finally asked, around a mouthful of cheese.

"Wasn't my idea," he denied. Another swig of beer helped more words come out. "Officially," and this was accompanied by air quotes around the neck of his beer bottle, "your resume could use a little punching up."

Sam stared at him, incredulous.

"By the time an officer reaches the exalted ranks of Colonel, said officer should have supervisory experience at the battalion level." O'Neill continued, his explanation sounded like something he'd half-memorized from a memo, or a lecture from General Jumper. He took another swig of beer, and stared at it for inspiration.

"Your combat experience and work with your doohickeys have earned you the rank you've got. But if you want to go any further, you're going to have to show you can be in charge more than a handful of civilian contractors. Or allied warriors… Ah, hell, Carter. They're right, you need more experience pushing paper around and learning to deal with politics."

She considered a number of responses. She'd been in charge or advised on dozens of projects at the SGC, but most of them _had_ been civilians who saw her as a boss, not a superior officer. She'd dealt with paperwork by the ream while doing the initial research on the Stargate, but most of that had been related to the Gate itself, and more like grant paperwork than management. And however much O'Neill himself had grumbled about and ducked the paperwork in the years they'd worked together, he had served as General Hammond's second at the SGC and dealt with all the same headaches that Hammond had done. Sure, he'd complained even more about the paperwork when he'd been promoted to General and taken over Hammond's job, but it was part of the job and he'd done a better than adequate job of running the place for the last two years.

She didn't really want to learn to dull routines of ordering supplies and managing junior officers, but was an entirely valid point in consideration of her future career. And now, with the war with the Go'auld system lords all but over, maybe it was perhaps time to think about her career ambitions once more. It didn't make being reassigned any more appealing, and the lack of advance notice was galling. Yet in the final analysis, she was a soldier and she'd always known that transfers were part of the deal. No matter how much they sucked.

Finally she dropped the crust she'd been toying with, took another piece, and managed a response. "_You_ call Teal'c a civilian contractor. I dare you."

He shot her a darkly amused look, one that clearly stated he wasn't THAT stupid. His mood remained morose, though, and after a moment Sam took a bite and started chewing. Something else was bothering him, and it was probably something worse than her reassignment.

"You're not the only one getting re-assed," he eventually muttered, then took a savage bite of his pizza.

Sam stared at him, before rapidly chewing so she could speak without her mouth full.

"Hammond's retiring," O'Neill added, not bothering with such niceties. His voice was garbled and thick until he washed it all down with beer. "He had a mild heart attack two weeks ago."

"Is he okay? He never said anything."

"He's okay, but he's not doing great. His cardiologist has pretty much said his heart can't take the stress for much longer. He and Jumper decided to keep it quiet, while they look for a replacement for Home World Security."

Mindful of her previous resolution not to ask questions, she pondered the situation, poked at it, and saw the pieces slip in, fitting into a new pattern.

"You."

"Gettin' a new star and everything," he added unenthusiastically, taking another sip of his beer.

Torn between dismay at yet another shake up in her world and the expected response when someone got promoted, Sam forced herself to smile. "Congratulations! When do you transfer?"

"I've got a month to get things wrapped up at SGC. Then two weeks leave to find a new place in D.C. Somewhere in there, I have to figure out what to do with my house, and Hammond suggested I find a way to burn any leave I've got accumulated before I get to the Pentagon, 'cause I'm not gonna get a chance to take any after he officially retires."

Remembering a comment he'd once made about getting lost in Washington, Sam let out a soft snort of laughter. "I'll buy you a street map of D.C."

"Christ, don't remind me," he said, obviously not as amused. "Washington, D.C. Nothing but shrubs and bootlickers as far as the eye can see."

"The cherry trees are nice in the springtime," she offered.

"They're pink," he pointed out, which was obviously enough to disqualify them.

Sam gave him a exasperated look. "General, did you ever notice you have a very poor opinions of trees and shrubs?"

He shrugged, unperturbed.

"And isn't your cabin in the middle of the woods?"

"Yeah, so? It's peaceful up there. Whatever you can say about D.C., peaceful ain't it."

Unable to deny it, Sam shrugged back and drank her beer.

"How about you?" he asked, after several moments.

"Me?"

"When do you leave?"

She frowned, bringing the relevant dates out of her almost photographic memory. "SG1 is slated for a week's after action leave, then two weeks administrative leave to get my housing situation in order in Colorado Springs and then Nevada. I report to General Markham at Nellis on the 18th."

The General nodded. "Teal'c still on Chulak?"

She shook her head. "Dakara, for now. Bra'tak and the other leaders of the Free Jaffa are starting negotiations on a government model."

"Well that sounds like fun…" O'Neill drawled. "Makes D.C. sound _so_ much better."

Taking a quick breath, she blurted out one of her deepest suspicions. "I'm not sure he's going to come back," she managed. The General's eyebrows rose and fell as his tactical mind considered their friend.

"Yeah, me neither." No further discussion was really necessary – they both knew that the stoic warrior had vowed to fight at their side until his people were free. Now, they were. His oath was fulfilled. And his people would need his example and wisdom in the months and years to come as they learned to operate as an independent, free nation.

"Danny's back," he pointed out. Then frowned.

After serving together for so many years, Sam knew where his thoughts had gone. Dr. Jackson had been enormously tempted by the Atlantis expedition, and their recent reconnection to Earth had exited him to no end when they'd made contact once more. Without the rest of the team, there was no reason for the archeologist to remain in at the SGC when the lure of legendary Ancient civilizations were in the offering.

"I guess this is it, huh?" Sam finally managed.

"End of an era," he returned, his light tone almost disguising the emotions.

Tears prickled at the corner of her eyes, and Sam quickly focused on drinking her rapidly warming beer. The threat of her team breaking up had always been a possibility. She should be grateful it was from new opportunities, and not from one of their all too often brushes with death.

O'Neill leaned back in his chair, his momentary lightness, however false, fading away. "When Jumper & Hammond asked me to stay…" he began, his voice softer than usual, "I thought… I thought they were gonna talk about my request for retirement."

Sam's blue eyes locked with his, but he was quick to look down at the floor.

"I put in a request for retirement yesterday. I thought that maybe, with the Replicators out of commission and Anubis taking a powder, it was a good time."

"A good time…" Sam echoed, hoping he'd continue. Her pulse began to pound in her ears.

"A good time to take a step back. Maybe see what else…" He trailed off, unable to continue.

"Could you have said no?" she asked, unsure of what he was really saying – what she hoped he was saying. What they could never say to each other, not while they were in the same chain of command.

O'Neill made a face. "Their next candidate was General Kirkenbaum."

Her eyes widened, startled and alarmed. Not that she would ever have said anything negative _out_ _loud_ about a superior officer.

Yeah," he agreed dryly. "What was it you said when I took over SGC? There's always someone else who could screw it up more."

Their eyes met once more, sharing a moment of humor and misery and sweet anguish made all the more poignant by their inability to actually say anything and remain within the bounds of regulations. He would go to Washington, and she would go to Nevada. They'd email each other, and call, but things would never be the same again.

Daniel would go on hunting his rocks, as the General called it, and Teal'c would return to his people and their fragile, hard-won freedom. No more long nights of movies and take-out food. No private jokes, no standing around the infirmary, waiting for news that one of them had yet again been far luckier than they deserved.

And General Jack O'Neill, as head of Home World Security, would be in her chain of command for years – as out of reach as he ever was, even when they sat shoulder to shoulder watching Teal'c's grainy copy of Star Wars yet again.

The spell was broken by the tinny sound of the Simpson's theme, and O'Neill lurched to one side as he fumbled for the cell phone in his pocket. Blinking hard, Sam made herself useful in folding the greasy cardboard and leftover crusts into something that would fit into a trash can. Not meaning to eavesdrop, she still heard enough of this half of the conversation to know that he was talking to someone about catching a transport back home. Which would not be 'home' for much longer.

"Yeah. Yeah. No, it's a short window, but we should make it."

Sam's hand's suddenly stopped. A window.

With the sudden crystalline clarity that overcame her when a solution presented itself, she absently dropped her almost-empty beer back into the cardboard rack and walked to the door. Walked out, and was in her own room before she even realized she'd slid the key card in the lock.

The envelope was still in the bottom of her suit bag. It was still the same boring, brownish-beige that personified the bureaucracy of their military. And the papers inside still had the same effective date.

Immediately. As in – today – at midnight. She checked the date and time on her watch to be sure. As in - _now_.

Her mind was still turning over the possibilities when a firm fist knocked on her door. Thrusting the paperwork back in the bag, she closed the closet door and opened the door to the hall.

Jack O'Neill stood there, and she couldn't help the broad smile that crossed her lips.

"Carter?" He looked her over and quirked an eyebrow, obviously confused at her sudden departure a moment ago. "You leave the stove on or something?"

Sam clamped down on her inappropriate giggle. "No. I was just checking on something."

That earned her another look, but he didn't comment. Instead he informed her that they could catch a transport back to Colorado Springs in the morning, but they'd have to be on the move by oh five thirty to catch it.

"Sounds good," she told him. "Better turn in, then."

"Oo-kay," he agreed, mystified. It was only ten pm.

He had only taken one step when Sam screwed up her courage. "Hey, Jack?" He paused, and she managed to sound casual. "What do you say we get the guys and go fishing, up at your cabin?"

"What – like one last hurrah for SG-1?"

"Exactly -SG-1 against the fish."

"Ya know, Teal'c _loves_ fishing."

"And the mosquitos," she added, a giggle escaping at last.

"You're on," he agreed, sounding happier now than at any time in the last twelve hours. "See you in the morning."

"Good night, Jack," she called to his retreating back, then shut her door. For several long moments she leaned against its solid plane, smiling into her empty room and not feeling the least bit foolish.

Sam had managed to change into a pair of flannel sleep pants and wash her face when the same knock sounded on her door, this time a bit more hesitant. A bubble of giddiness rose in her throat, but she ruthlessly tamped it down and answered the door, forcing her mouth into a neutral, polite smile.

"You called me Jack," said the frowning man on the other side of the door.

She nodded. "Uh huh. So?"

His frown deepened. "You never call me that."

Suddenly doubting herself, Sam stiffened. "Is that a problem?"

"No," he denied quickly. "It just surprised me. After eight years of 'sir'ing me to death, you finally start calling your C.O. by name…" Jack paused, working it through.

His eyebrows moved up, then down into a deep frown, making her smile break through into genuine, beaming delight. He was just that adorable.

"I'm not your commanding officer anymore," he finally said, slowly, as if trying the words out.

"No, you're not," she agreed.

"You're no longer in my chain of command."

"Not for at least 44 days, by my calculations – not until you move to D.C."

General George Hammond was no dummy – there was absolutely no way he hadn't been aware of the simmering attraction between the military members of his flagship team. He'd let them decide the mission of guarding Earth came first, and quietly trusted them to do their duty and not break under the stress. Likewise, he was too subtle to make an overt suggestion to either one of them. But he was proving that he didn't get his stars based on his good looks when he simultaneously promoted Jack, advanced Sam's career, and provided them with a window of opportunity, however slim, to explore what had been forbidden between them for so long.

It had once taken Samantha Carter less than an hour to figure out how to blow up a sun and devastate an enemy fleet. On the other hand, rewriting the laws of physics had required almost three solid months of work.

Surely figuring out her relationship with Jack O'Neill couldn't take 44 full days.

Jack was still staring at her, his dark brown eyes moving over her tousled hair, the shabby shirt and flannel covered legs. He'd seen her in Mess Dress and civilian clothes. Over the years they'd seen each other in uniforms, covered in mud and blood and sweat, and once or twice nothing at all. He'd even seen her in bejeweled regalia fitting for a Mongolian princess, but this time he really, really looked at her. Like he was allowed to look at her. And he took his time doing it.

"Jack," she called his attention.

"Yeah?" he responded instantly. He liked hearing it from her.

"Do you want to have dinner tomorrow night? When we get back to the Springs?"

He started slightly at that, but then nodded gravely. "Yeah. Sure."

He was still looking at her, nodding slowly, the corner of his mouth lifting in wonder and surprise. "I'm gonna…" he trailed off, jerking a thumb towards his room.

"Okay. See you in the morning," she replied brightly.

"You betcha," he shot back, his smile getting wider by the moment.

Sam narrowed her eyes at him in mock sternness. "Good night, Jack."

The man met her gaze, his sherry-colored eyes brimming with humor and not just a little carefully controlled heat. "Good night – Samantha."

With a wink, he turned and sauntered back to his room, almost whistling in sheer anticipation of the future – their future.

~fin~


End file.
